Greying, fraying
by IckleSickle
Summary: Post Hallowe'en 1981 Remus POV. Trying to cope when black has faded to grey and the fabric of his existence is fraying. Angst and depression, maybe a hint of lunacy. No real plot. Teeny tiny hint of implied slash.


_When Remus Lupin lost all to black, everything became grey._

A/N:

This is kind of a song-fic (using the beginning of Dido's Thank you, but the rest of the song doesn't apply) about what Remus goes through after the events of 31st October, 1981.

The **bold** bits are mostly erratic thoughts that push through among the more controlled, observant ones. Slash implied. Angst.

**RLSBRLSBRLSB**

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why I got out of bed at all... It feels like there's nothing in this world for me. This apartment is just four grey walls, our **NO it's my bed** with its grey sheets. I should've changed them weeks ago, charms don't clean them much anymore. But I don't have spares, at least nothing you haven't slept in, and I can't afford new ones. Rest of our **MY** stuff is in cardboard boxes, covered by dust, another layer of grey. When I look in the mirror there's a grey stranger **Remus John Lupin**** don't you recognize yourself you idiot **with greyish skin and silver streaks in hair. I'm 21 for Godric's sake **am I when was my birthday **and I'm visibly greying, I look _so_ _old._

I drink the bitter, cold tea **Earl ****Grey ha ha ha** in one go. It makes my stomach turn. When did I last eat? I'm pretty sure it was the day before yesterday...

I put the empty mug on the window sill, where there's already several. I wrap myself in the grey blanket, absent-mindedly thinking that my birthday isn't for months, I think it's December now, there's been one, no, two Fulls since ** no ****won't think about it.****  
**

Not that any of that really matters now you're gone.

**RLSBRLSBRLSB**

When I wake up again the morning **I'm pretty sure it****'****s ****morning** rain clouds up my window and I can't see at all. And even if I could it'd all be grey, I'm pretty sure it would be. I'm too scared to wipe the moisture off. Maybe everything has disappeared. It feels like it has.

I turn to my other side. Just greyish wallpaper, peeling, I can see nothing but your picture on my wall. One would think that'd be the last thing I'd put on my wall, but it reminds me that it's not so bad.

It's not so bad...

It could be so much worse.

**RLSBRLSBRLSB**

I drank too much last night **I finally opened a box found vodka I drank it all, felt like I was going to die hoped I would still do!** but I should get up. A pile of letters on the floor reminds me I got bills to pay, rent and water mainly. I don't even use the heating, I just pile on clothes and use the odd warming charm.

I get up, I groan, my head just feels in pain. I look at the clock on the wall **it was in the box it was ours partly yours but it's JUST A CLOCK ****would be ****stupid to**** buy a new one** next to your picture. I missed the bus and there'll be hell today, I'm late for work again... I probably just won't go. I know they won't call after me. And even if I'm there, they'll all imply that I might not last the day, which is actually quite fair since I'm constantly doing a half-assed job. I hate these meaningless jobs... But I can't get anything better without a Muggle education, and I've turned my back on the Wizarding world, just like it has turned it's back on me.

**RLSBRLSBRLSB**

My tea's gone cold again. Instead of drinking I pick up the mug, walk to the sink in the kitchenette corner. When I pour it, I hold the mug high up so that the brown liquid falls in a thin, long stream and splatter's against the metal. You used to do that. I hated it, said it was messy. But that isn't true, it just annoyed me for some reason.

It startles me a bit when I realize it doesn't hurt to think this. I open the tap and let it run for a minute, then rinse the mug and drink some icy water from it. It hurts my stomach and I decide to go get something to eat.

I'm dressed, I have my money, my keys are in my hand and I'm halfway out of the door when I pause in this small room that's been my home **asylum not the good kind it's been ****our shared**** prison ****even if you don't know it** for weeks. I take your picture and remove it from the frame. You make kissy faces at me.

"I'll just throw you away", I say, idly wondering why I took it out of the frame, why I'm folding it neatly and putting it in my breast pocket, near my heart. I drop my keys on the floor and don't pick them up, I almost believe it really is an accident. I step out of the room and into the stairway. I press the door shut, hear the lock click.

I exit to the misty street. I walk forward, somewhere, anywhere. I never look back, I don't think about the **our **stuff I left. At the first trash can I take your picture from my pocket, I look at it one last time, then throw it away **except I don't I fold it again and put it back in my pocket and never look at it ****just when no-one ****sees not even myself****, b****ut you're with me**

and I remind myself that it could be so much worse.


End file.
